Every River Ran Red
by CanakoNako
Summary: "WE ARE SORRY, EuroNet IS EXPERIENCING SOME DIFFICULTY DUE TO THE NATURE OF THIS MESSAGE. IT WILL BE PROPERLY DEALT WITH AND DESTROYED. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE, Arthur Kirkland." In a world where freedom has been taken, and no one seems to notice, does it really matter?
1. Chapter 1

_Nineteen years ago, the War ended. After twenty years of fighting such as the world had never seen - excluding, perhaps, the days of the Roman Empire - it was finally, finally over. No one knows why it began, only that it was the worst war Europe had ever experienced._

_No one knows what to call it, so it is known as simply 'the War'. There are no other words to describe it, except War, and Hate, and Disgust. But only the word War lived on._

_Not much is known about the War, still, even close to two decades after its end. Much is based on speculation: the people had finally snapped; the laws were becoming too harsh; it was because of some strange and new religion; they just did it to do it. One thing is known for sure: it began in Switzerland._

_Such a strange place for a war to begin ,isn't it? The country known for neutrality, and isolating itself from the world, was the beginning to the War. It began in much the same way as many other wars had in the past: citizens revolted._

_But unlike those other wars, this War was much more violent. Guns had been outlawed so long ago, no one remembered them, along with cannons, bombs, tanks, and other modern military weapons. People resorted to knives, to fires, to ancient swords rusted with forgotten blood. Neighbors burned down each others' homes, friends slit each others' throats, families were torn apart by fear and hatred._

_Every river ran red._

_Soon, the fighting spread over the rest of Europe, engulfing once-innocent countries in bloodshed. (But is any nation truly innocent, after all?) A few countries were spared, and only got the slightest taste of copper blood in their air and their water. Most of the United Kingdom, especially Ireland. Iceland. Islands like Sicily, Corsica, and Sardinia. But even those innocent places - Iceland, doing nothing but resting across an ocean - had fighting. Primal, animalistic fighting, people resorting to their teeth and nails._

_Fortunately, most of the rest of the world wasn't involved, though parts of Asia and Africa had been part of the fighting at some point. The citizens of Europe saw no reason to bring the rest of the innocent world (innocent - such a vague word) into their senseless fighting, which even they recognized to be senseless. Even so, they couldn't bring themselves to stop._

_Twenty years of painful brutality later, salvation came in the form of the Bill of End. The Bill, as it came to be called, stated that Europe would become isolated from the rest of the world. No citizens would be allowed in or out, and Europeans vacationing in other countries were immediately brought back to their country of origin. Once that was accomplished, every border was shut down._

_Russia, poor Russia, had two options: be destroyed completely, or be separated from their capital. Eventually, they were reduced to territories and towns, much the way it had been before the great Russia became great._

_Communication with the rest of the world had been shut down. Phones only contacted phones in Europe, and each conversation was recorded. The Internet had become a thing of the past, replaced with the EuroNet. The post offices would immediately destroy any cross-continental-bound letters or packages._

_At first, citizens thought it to be unfair. Then, slowly, they began to accept it. Embraced it, even. After all, why would they want to involve anybody else with their War? Soon, few were left who remembered any of how it used to be, and they were on the islands, too far away to consider communicating and too primitive to bother._

_And Europe was again at peace._

* * *

These were Antonio's favorite nights. The ones where he and Mathias would build forts out of the hundreds of pillows and sheets in their coastal house, then spend the entire night in them. Only a lantern lit their immense fort, built in a ballroom no longer useful to them. After all, the only company they ever entertained was Emil, and he was a small man. He'd already staked out one of the guest rooms as his own, anyway.

The Spaniard leaned back against the wall, the soft _thud _muffled by the sheets that hung against the wall. He liked to think their little pillow-and-blanket forts were impenetrable, though he knew that to be impossible.

Mathias grinned when they were in place, the small lantern between them reminiscent of fire. "So?" he prodded, legs crossed like a child.

This was a tradition they'd had for a long, long time, as long as they could remember. Of course, they remembered political things from their history - for Antonio, there was the Inquisition, the discovery of the New World, faceless colonies surrounding him. He didn't know much about Mathias's past, though. The Dane didn't like to talk about it.

But their personal memories were lost so quickly, and they only had them from the last few decades. So, rather than recount stories from their pasts (which were almost as bloody as the War), they told each other of dreams. Faces lost to the mists of sleep, lovers in another life (though they didn't want any lover besides each other), evenings spent by fireplaces.

"Last night," the Spaniard began, "I had a dream about the same boy as before. Remember?"

Mathias nodded in earnest, leaning forward and listening to the story eagerly. He'd heard all about the strange, dark-haired boy that resided in many of Antonio's dreams, and each 'sighting' of him was interesting.

"He was coming up to me, and he was crying," he began, whispering as though it were a dark and terrible secret. It wasn't just for effect, though. No one knew for sure when the EuroNet was listening, or what they considered 'important.' "And I was hurt. I was hurt real bad. And he started to try and fix all my wounds while he was crying, and then when he was done, he nearly passed out."

The blond sitting across from him shook his head in wonder. "You haven't been hurt that bad since the War, and I _know _that kid's not here." A small grin appeared on his face as he spoke, though.

Antonio nodded in agreement, falling silent for a minute. When he spoke again, it was even quieter, "I feel like it was back when I was a country, around the Inquisition."

Mathias's eyes widened slightly. Antonio rarely talked about being a country, and it was even rarer that he spoke of the Inquisition. "Crazy," he finally whispered, his grin returning quickly. "Wanna hear mine?"

The brunette nodded, moving so that he was laying on his stomach. It was a childish position, but then, he had a childish disposition.

The next several minutes were spent by Mathias recounting a dream where he'd seen Emil and a quiet Asian man (what a miracle it was that he remembered what an Asian looked like) whose name was lost on him. Antonio had heard stories from Emil before, stories of the Before Time, as it had come to be called.

When Mathias was done with his story, they fell into a comfortable silence. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for the two - it may as well have been part of their ritual.

Finally, they turned off the lantern, shared a quick kiss, and curled into their bed made of pillows. It was the perfect end to the perfect night, to Antonio. Curling up with his lover on a soft bed of their creation, in the warm darkness.

Neither of them expected to be woken in the middle of the night.

* * *

"_There will be no communication outside the continent of Europe. The Internet will no longer be permitted for citizens' use, and will be replaced with the EuroNet. The EuroNet will be a government funded and maintained substitute." - The Bill of End_

* * *

"I can't _take _it anymore!" cried the British man, tossing a plate across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces falling to the floor in shards.

Silently, Francis moved to pick up the broken china as Arthur curled into a small ball against the cabinets. "I know," he said simply, moving to toss the shards into the trash. He grimaced at the sight of what the can contained; cigarette ash, bloodied rags, broken glass. Once he had rid his scarred hands of the plate, he sat next to his friend, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "He'll be okay," he muttered. "Alfred is strong. He won't do anything _too _stupid." The man cracked a small smile at his own small joke.

"I don't care if he's strong, I want him back!" Arthur snapped, acidic green eyes burning. "Goddammit, I miss him!"

"I know, I know," the Frenchman soothed, not allowing himself to be affected by the other's anger. It wasn't really anger, he knew, but sadness, and fear, and longing, all because of decades of missing someone. "You'll get to him again, I know it. After all, he's managed to ha - "

"Don't say it," he hissed, slapping a hand over Francis's mouth. His eyes said everything that needed to be said: 'The EuroNet could be listening.'

Francis nodded in understanding, gently moving Arthur's hand away from his mouth. "You think I don't miss Mathieu?" he whispered softly. "I do. Every day of my life, I miss him."

Arthur let out a long sigh, the anger finally fading away. "I know they're okay," he muttered, standing and moving to the window. "Alfred is strong, like you said. He's gone through some bad times, but he's always pulled through. And he's definitely taking care of Matthew, if he can't handle anything himself."

Yes, they'd both lost someone once the Bill of End was signed. Francis had lost a son, and Arthur, a lover. Why, oh why, did they have to be so attached to someone across an ocean? Water had never seemed as vast before the Bill was signed.

The worst part was that they'd each had a hand in it. Every once-nation had signed their name on the Bill of End, each signing with a shaking and scarred hand. Once the last signature had been scrawled onto the paper, they'd lost something. Most nations had simply lost their land and their nation name. Arthur Kirkland was no longer England - he was just Arthur Kirkland.

Francis had signed for his people, who were dying just as quickly as they were killing. Arthur had signed for his land, which was being destroyed slowly by fires that reminded him so harshly of the Fires of London. No matter the reason, they'd signed away their last chance to talk to Alfred and Matthew.

"I wish I could've said good-bye," Arthur muttered, staring out the window. It was raining again. How easy it was to watch rain, so mindless. 'Maybe,' he mused silently, 'if I could just stare at the rain forever, I could live the rest of my life easily. No worries whatsoever.'

Francis was the one to snap him out of his foolish reverie by wrapping his arms around the smaller man gently. "I know," he cooed for the millionth time that night. "We all do. We - "

"_We _has nothing to do with it!" Arthur growled, shoving the Frenchman away. "We're the only ones with relatives so far away! All the others, they have their families here, and nowhere else!" He took several deep breaths, muttering under his breath, "America…India…Australia…_Alfred…_"

"How do you think Yeketerina and Natasha feel?" Francis asked quietly, not wanting to anger the other any more than he already had. "Their brother was dissolved, and now Ivan is stuck in Asia, and he's very sick. Or, he was sick twenty years ago. There's no telling what could have happened to him." He let out a long sigh, staring out the window with Arthur. "…Or Lovino. You remember Feliciano's disappearance, _oui_?"

Arthur nodded silently, closing his eyes. "…I suppose. But with Lovino, he _knows _that Feliciano is dead. Yeketerina and Natasha have a sort of Schrödinger's cat with Ivan…if they don't see him, he could be alive or dead, and they're probably betting on alive. But I _know _Alfred and Matthew are alive, I just can't _see _them!"

"Worrying will do you no good," Francis grumbled quietly. "…Arthur, I can't stay. It's getting late, and I need to be home."

"Home isn't home anymore," Arthur said simply, not turning away from the window. "…Go on, then. Go."

And with that last word, Francis was out the door, already starting towards the plane that would bring him back to the mainland.

* * *

"_Telephone access will be limited to Europe, and will be transmitted through the EuroNet for government maintenance." - The Bill of End_

* * *

"Nice night, isn't it?" said Tino absently, standing at the counter near the coffeemaker.

"Mmh," hummed Berwald in agreement from his seat at the small, square dining room table.

"It's fortunate…it's been raining so much, I didn't think we'd ever get a clear night!" The small man laughed lightly as he spoke, bringing two mugs of coffee over to the table. He sat across from his self-proclaimed husband, passing him one of the mugs. "But then, I guess it had to clear up sometime, huh?"

He often found himself speaking much more than Berwald, filling up an otherwise silent home, but he didn't mind. He knew that the tall Swede had trouble with words, and even more so since Loke had gotten so sick. The pessimistic part of Tino's mind doubted whether the boy would ever recover, but he quickly pushed that to the back of his mind.

Up the flight of stairs, they could hear Peter and Loke playing some sort of video game. Tino couldn't help but chuckle slightly. Even in his sickly state, Loke never changed. His smile faded as he remembered why Loke loved video games so much. He'd been the Internet nation, hadn't he? Back before the Internet was replaced with the EuroNet.

"Who d'ya think's winn'ng?" came Berwald's sudden and random query over the ceramic mug of coffee.

Tino blinked at the question, the smile returning. "Loke, of course. He always wins, doesn't he?"

"Unsurpris'ngly," the bespectacled blond said, and if Tino wasn't mistaken, he'd actually _laughed _a little. It was good to hear his husband laugh…he hadn't since before the War. "Bein' the 'nternet nation an' all."

The Finn's eyes widened at how carelessly Berwald had thrown the word 'Internet' into the air, as though it were as meaningless as the word 'coffee.' "But obviously, the EuroNet's better," he said a little too loudly, laughing nervously.

Berwald shrugged absently, taking another sip from his mug. "I wouldn' say so, but if ya 'nsist," he muttered, adjusting his glasses slightly.

They sat in an awkward, uncomfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the forest their house was located in. The house was perfectly secluded, almost like an imagined wonderland come to life. The idyllic two-story house sat in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded on all sides by evergreens. Just a short walk away, there was a lake where they would often bring Peter and Loke during the summer. Yes, it seemed absolutely perfect.

The silence was broken by a loud cry of triumph from the floor above. Tino couldn't help but smile a bit at Peter's shout. "Looks like he finally beat Loke," he said with a tone of parental pride.

"Huh," Berwald answered nonchalantly, finishing off his coffee as Peter stormed down the stairs, his eyes shining beacons of pride.

"I beat 'im!" he cheered happily, raising one small fist into the air. "I finally beat 'im!"

"Great job, Peter!" grinned Tino, reaching out to hug his adopted son. Their entire family was adopted, wasn't it? The…spouses (as Tino preferred to think of them as) brought together in a time of fear, the sons brought to them from abandon, the dog found starving in the woods. Somehow, the bundle of misfits became the perfect family, the envy of other once-nations and humans alike.

Berwald gave him a small nod of approval, the trace of a smile gracing his lips. "Wh're's Loke?" he asked casually, looking down at his beaming son.

The look in Peter's eyes quickly changed from pride to alarm. Usually, whenever Peter beat Loke in something, the latter would come racing down the stairs screaming profanities and protesting the unfairness of the world. But this time, there was only silence.

"…_Loke_!" Tino shouted after the silence became unbearable, tearing himself away from Peter and racing up the stairs. Distantly, he heard Berwald and Peter running after him, but he barely registered it as he dashed for the door to Loke's room.

The redhead was laying facedown on the carpet, his arms and legs looking ashen and pale. His breathing was light and slow, just enough for him to still be alive.

But just barely.

Surprisingly, it was Berwald who was at his side first, picking up his ill son. He began to mutter something in Swedish to him, a language none of them had heard in quite a while. After the Bill had been signed, everyone just switched to English. It was easier than trying to maintain all those different languages.

Peter didn't understand much of the language, nor did Loke. Unfortunately, though, Tino recognized it. The message was one of good-bye, a message very rarely heard outside of… He shook his head. That couldn't be what Berwald was saying.

Because what it sounded like was what was said at funerals.

* * *

"_No one nation should distinguish itself from another; the continent, along with what was formerly countries, will be known as Europe." - The Bill of End_

* * *

Lukas watched his partner sadly from his position by the twisted tree, not wanting to leave yet, but not wanting to interrupt Lovino's personal time. After all, he knew the Italian missed his brother - and why wouldn't he? Feliciano had gone missing halfway through the War, and once it was over, everyone just assumed he'd died. It was the most believable story, anyway.

Lukas and Lovino had created a tombstone together, chosen the spot in the cemetery, buried a few of Feliciano's possessions and pictures. It was the closest they could get to finding a body.

After several more minutes, Lovino stood from his kneeling position by the smooth granite stone, wiping away a few tears that had formed. "Let's go," he muttered quietly, already starting towards the silver car they shared. His black jacket fluttered out behind him, matching the cool night perfectly.

With a small sigh, Lukas followed behind him, the keys jangling in his pocket. He'd always been their designated driver - besides the fact that he could maneuver even the busy streets of Rome, he also drank less than Lovino.

Neither of them thought Lovino could drive now, anyway.

The drive to their (rather large) home was long and silent. Lovino obviously didn't want to talk about what he'd been doing, and Lukas didn't talk much anyway…but even so, it seemed strange for them.

Once inside, Lovino collapsed on the couch, already half-asleep. The Norwegian cringed slightly at the sight of him; his hair disheveled, his jacket hanging off of him loosely, his complexion pale. He knew that Lovino had been depressed about this for weeks, and he knew that it happened every year, but it never failed to depress him.

"C'mon," the blond said softly, shaking Lovino's shoulder slightly. He was using a tone of voice he rarely used, one full of sympathy and concern. Most of the time, he didn't let much emotion into his voice…it was all in his posture. "C'mon, you've gotta get to bed."

"Nnh," was the response, muffled by a pillow.

"C'mon…"

"_Nnh._"

"Lovino."

No response. He tried again, "_Lovino._"

"What?" grumbled the tired and spent Italian.

"You've gotta get to bed, and I will drag you up the stairs if I have to." Lukas crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes slightly at the other. "Needless to say, it won't be pleasant, and in the morning I will make you clean your own blood from the stairs."

Slowly, the brunette stood, his own arms folded over his chest. If there was anyone who could match the hot-headed Italian in threats and insults, it was Lukas. "Fine," he hissed, starting up the stairs and leaving his blond boyfriend in the dust.

Once Lovino was upstairs, Lukas collapsed where the other had been, running a hand through his hair. This was always the most stressful day of the year…it was the anniversary of Feliciano's disappearance, and Lovino was always depressed and miserable for weeks before. Once the day had passed, he always returned to his irritable and angry self. But the weeks that he didn't were torture for the Norwegian.

Hopefully, he'd return to normal soon. He always did, after all.

* * *

**A/N: Whew! This took a really long time to write, so I hope you guys are satisfied with it!**

**A few things:**

**1. I'm sorry for not updating recently! I just haven't had it in me enough to write more responses for Dear Lovino, so I'm labelling it as 'complete.'**

**2. Stephanie - I lost your number, text me? ;3;**

**3. This is sort of a post-apocalpytic thing, but instead of everything being destroyed, it was just freedom that was destroyed (essentially - I'll reveal more later!). So, yes, it is in the future.**

**I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Every River Ran Red!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Open up! _Now!_" shouted the British-accented voice, the body behind the voice slamming his fists on the door of the house on the coast of Denmark.

"What…?" muttered Antonio, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Mathias rolled his eyes and stood, starting towards the door and slamming it open. "Ice, it is three in the morning," he hissed, his normally cheerful demeanor gone. He was just too tired to keep up a grin now. "What the _hell _could be so important that you - "

Wordlessly, the panting Emil held out a blade, the steel stained slightly with blood. "Take this," he managed, his violet eyes burning.

Antonio sighed and stood, taking the younger man's hand. "C'mon, Emil," he muttered, starting towards the guest room that they'd set up for the Icelandic man years ago. "You're tired, it was a long flight, and you need to sleep."

He struggled against Antonio's hold, gripping tightly to the blade. "Listen to me!" he pleaded, the metal slicing into the skin of his hand and causing blood to fall to the hardwood floor. "Mathias, Antonio, you have to listen to me!"

Mathias, from his position by the door, rolled his eyes and closed the white metal door. "You're tired. Go to sleep," he commanded, crossing his arms and looking altogether pissed. The Spaniard walking Emil to his room felt a pang of recognition, but he shook it off. He was still tired, after all…it was probably nothing.

Antonio nodded for the Dane to go back to sleep. He would walk the still-protesting Emil to bed, and then come back to the oversized pillow fort they'd created. With a small sigh, Mathias disappeared into the white folds of the bed sheets.

It didn't take long to get Emil to the room, where he finally relaxed and sat on the bed. "I've got a headache," he muttered, his violet eyes hazy for a moment.

The brunette gave him a small smile and replied, "There's some pills in the bathroom. You know where." Emil had been to this house enough times that he didn't need to be told where anything was - he just knew. It made everything a lot easier for all of them.

He nodded silently and laid down on the bed, his hand still gripping the blade. Gently, as though dealing with a barely-contained fire, Antonio uncurled the pale fingers and let the blade fall onto the sheets. A small splatter of red made itself known on the white cotton, but he ignored it…once Emil left, he could wash them, or just throw them away. "Let me fix up your hand, alright?" he said quietly, giving Emil a small grin. Eyes closed, the pale man nodded.

"Okay. I'll be right back." With that, Antonio stood, starting towards the bathroom where they kept the first-aid kit.

The red plastic box was dusty - when was the last time they'd had to use it? A few years ago, probably, when Mathias had cut his hand making dinner (that had been the last time Mathias had done anything culinary). Other than that… Antonio wracked his brain, but came up with nothing.

He raced back into Emil's room, taking his injured hand gently. "Can you sit up?" he asked, opening the kit with one hand.

Emil nodded and sat up against the headboard, removing his hand from Antonio's. The Spaniard began to clean the long wound on the small, pale hand, causing the owner of the hand to hiss in pain. Antonio quickly apologized after each hiss, though he didn't pause in his cleaning. "So why did you come here, again?" he asked after a while, setting the bloody rag down and beginning to wrap the bloody hand in gauze.

"I…" started Emil. He looked like he was straining to remember something, something so close, and yet so far. "…I don't know." The look on his face disappeared, as though he'd accepted that he couldn't remember it, and no longer cared.

Antonio sighed a bit, standing once the hand was wrapped. "Alright. That's alright. Go to sleep."

The pale Icelandic nodded and curled under the blankets, either not noticing or not caring about the splotches of red from his own blood.

As he left, the Spaniard turned off the light, letting Emil fall asleep. He obviously needed it - the poor boy was delusional.

Mathias was already asleep again, his chest rising and falling with each breath that he took. His normally-spiky blond hair fell in front of his face, fluttering gently with each breath. Antonio smiled a bit - his boyfriend could be adorable at times.

As he laid down next to him and closed his eyes, a thought struck him: the blade that Emil had brought in was still resting on the bed next to him. He sighed and stood, starting towards the guest room. He wouldn't want Emil to hurt himself in the night.

He opened the door carefully, staying as silent as he could. A small crack of dim light made its way into the room, no longer held back by the metal door, and hit the face of the small man buried under the covers. Silently, slowly, he made his way over to the side of the bed, where the blade still rested, covered in blood…both old and new. He shuddered slightly and picked it up with the sheets, carrying the steel out of the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was almost six in the morning. Antonio sighed, running a hand through messy hair. Might as well stay awake at this point…if he went back to sleep, he'd only have an hour or two of rest.

With that thought in mind - and the idea of a better breakfast than their normal meal of toast - he started towards the kitchen, blade in his hand and covered by the slightly red sheet.

Around an hour later, he heard Emil begin to stir, and a few minutes later, Mathias. They were talking to each other in the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen Antonio was in. Mathias was back to his normal, cheerful self, and Emil seemed better, too. Antonio smiled a bit at this and continued to cook.

Once he was finished, he set the plates of food on the table where Mathias and Emil were. "Morning 'Ntonio," muttered Emil, speaking around a mouthful of food. "Can I have that blade back?"

"You get right to the point, don'tcha?" laughed the Dane sitting across from him, causing the younger man to roll his eyes.

Antonio laughed with him, saying, "Sure, lemme just go get it."

He started back towards the kitchen and retrieved the blade, taking a moment to look down at it. The steel was obviously old, but showed no signs of rust or disrepair (save for the small spots of Emil's blood, and the red line down the edge that was obviously centuries old). The Spaniard suddenly had the strange desire to touch it, just to hold it once without the sheet. This was too strong to just shake off, he knew. And so, he slowly unwrapped it from the she -

_Pain. Nothing but pain. In his shoulder? He reaches up to touch the area, then hisses and pulls back, his hand covered in his own blood. It should hurt more - there's a bullet in it - aren't guns illegal? - does it even matter? - no._

_A man in front of him, barely more than a boy, holding the forbidden piece of metal and shouting at him. Did this boy shoot him? Probably. He doesn't know what the boy is shouting - it's foreign, but strangely familiar. He realizes he's shouting, too, shouting in a language that is certainly not English. _Spanish.

Antonio quickly dropped the blade, jumping back as it clattered on the floor. His head hurt badly, as did his shoulder, though the pain was only a dulled version of what he'd felt a moment ago. He didn't know what had just happened, but he knew three things for certain:

One: There was something strange about that blade.

Two: In what he'd seen, he'd been holding this blade.

Three: It was certainly familiar.

* * *

"_I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." - Albert Einstein_

* * *

"And you wonder why I always complain of a headache when I get to your house," Francis grumbled, running a hand through long blond hair. Arthur had nearly taken his head off with a juice glass when he walked in, and now the pieces of glass were scattered about the doorway. Neither man felt it was necessary to pick them up now. "What did you call me over here for?"

The doorway wasn't the only part of the house that looked horrible. Paintings and photos were askew on the walls and dusty, as though someone had hung them and never bothered to maintain them. The floors were littered with crumpled papers, cigarette ash, and broken bottles of alcohol. More than one window was broken, and the glass was scattered about the floor and the garden of death outside. Every flower in the garden was twisted, bent, and brown, and the grass would have died long ago if not for the constant rain. Every piece of furniture was in some state of disarray, and even the fireplace looked dead. To Francis, it wasn't a place to live; it was a place to die.

The Brit who owned the house didn't look much better. He was pale (even more so than usual) and thin, with huge bags under dull green eyes. He'd let his hair grow out again, and it hung past his shoulders in tangled, dirty blond clumps. Francis had never seen him look so terrible, not even during the War.

Truthfully, he'd never seen Arthur looking so dejected, so uncaring about everything. But then, Arthur had been hit by the War much more than any of the others.

"It's Alfred," the Brit whispered excitedly, sounding happier than Francis had heard him in a long, long time. They both knew what he meant: Alfred had managed to hack through the EuroNet and send a message, something he'd been able to do a few times since the Internet had been taken from Europe.

"Show me."

Arthur raced towards his computer, motioning for Francis to follow him. His mail was open on the screen, the plain white design of the EuroNet's mail system shining brightly. It was full of random messages - long-forgotten invitations to parties, messages about news developments (even if they weren't countries anymore, they were still involved with the government), reminders of appointments he'd never bothered to attend - and at the top of the list was a message from 'Amelia Smith,' Alfred's pseudonym.

Francis's brows raised slightly, but he showed no other signs of excitement. He'd learned long ago not to get too excited about these things; often times, the EuroNet would destroy a personal message if it wasn't read quickly enough. "Have you read it yet?" he whispered, as though he were afraid a government official were in the room with them.

Arthur shook his head 'no', his cursor hovering over the message. "Should we?" he asked just as quietly. The Frenchman nodded, kneeling down on the floor so he could see the screen better. Arthur would never offer him a chair, he knew - there were still some things that would never change.

With a quiet 'click', the message was opened. It was a relatively long message, especially for Alfred. It seemed to be split into two parts, one part shorter than the other. It didn't take the pair long to realize that the shorter message was from Alfred, the longer, from Matthew.

They read through the message quickly, each reading through the part addressed to them. The words were coded, all in Quebecois. It was obvious that Alfred and Matthew had taken every precaution to avoid the EuroNet destroying the message, even if it meant writing in a language only one of them spoke. They knew both Arthur and Francis spoke it (or could at least read it), though Alfred didn't, and had probably depended on Matthew to write his message.

Tears came to both of their eyes as they read, tears of longing, and self-hatred, and love. It had been so long since they'd been able to contact the step-brothers…and the worst part was that they couldn't send a message back. Whatever technological magic Alfred had used to hack the EuroNet was unavailable to the Europeans, and if they replied to the message, all three of them would be killed.

The minutes ticked on in silence, both men reading and re-reading the words. The tears fell past their weak defenses, but they ignored them as long as possible, not wanting to take even a moment to look away from the screen.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I'm not totally sure what to write, 'cause I don't even know if you're gonna get this, or if you've gotten any of my other messages or whatever, but I wanted to say hello and I still love you and I haven't forgotten you. Don't forget me, okay? I know this whole thing's gonna blow over soon, and we can get back together, forever this time._

_I love ya,_

_Alfred._

The words affected the Brit more than he thought they would…he missed Alfred so much, and the American thought he had forgotten him.

"Why the hell can't we message them back?" he muttered bitterly after reading the message for the fifth time.

"You know what would happen," answered Francis as evenly as possible, though his own voice was shaking, and his tears hit the old wood of the computer desk. He had to be the mature one here…he had to be Arthur's rock to hold onto, even when the rest of the world had abandoned him. He'd seen the dates on those invitations…they were from months, years ago. No one on the mainland talked about him. It was like the Brit had become a ghost to everyone but Alfred and Francis.

Before Arthur could even open his mouth to reply, the screen turned a plain black, silver writing appearing to break the monochromic background.

_WE ARE SORRY, EuroNet IS EXPERIENCING SOME DIFFICULTY DUE TO THE NATURE OF THIS MESSAGE. IT WILL BE PROPERLY DEALT WITH AND DESTROYED. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE, Arthur Kirkland._

* * *

"_Freedom lies in being bold." - Robert Frost_

* * *

The room was too white for Tino's taste, too white and sterile and cold and uncaring. The muffled sounds of electronic beeps and buzzes didn't make it any better - no matter how hard the doctors tried to keep the sounds silent, it didn't work. It never worked.

The Finn was sitting nervously on the couch in the waiting room, one twitching hand entwined with Berwald's still one. His husband had been completely silent throughout the whole ride to the hospital, silent through watching them roll Loke away on a stretcher, silent through their hours of sitting in the waiting room. Tino, on the other hand, hadn't been able to keep quiet, blabbering on and on about random topics.

They'd been told that until Loke was out of the ICU, they wouldn't be able to see him. Too many germs, they'd been told.

"Do you think Peter's okay with the babysitter? I hope he likes her, she's really nice, and she's great with kids, you know, and I've been friends with her for a while but we haven't seen her in so long, it'd be nice to talk to her again - "

Berwald cut off the nervous man with a harsh, "Just shut up, Tino." His syllables were clipped, nervous, but still cruel. The small blond next to him bit his lip and looked away, though neither relinquished their hold on the other's hand.

It was rare for Berwald to be so harsh, Tino knew, and he knew that it probably wouldn't happen again after Loke was better. At least, not for a long time. But for the time being, it was painful to hear.

"Berwald Oxenstierna, Tino Vainaamoinen, to the reception desk, please," came the tinny voice through the speakers, a slightly familiar voice, a voice from the Before Time, maybe. Tino shot a glance towards the tall Swede next to him, who nodded, and they stood, hands grasping each other like a lifeline.

Behind the desk was a woman with smoldering olive eyes and long brown hair tied behind her, her eyes focused on the clipboard in her hand. When a minute had gone by, and she still hadn't said anything, Berwald coughed slightly, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. "Ma'am?"

She looked up at the couple, her face lighting up with a practiced smile. It lacked the light of a real smile, Tino noted, in the same way that a lamp can never compare to the sun. "Berwald and Tino?" she asked, looking for confirmation. The couple nodded that, yes, it was them. The woman held out her hand, continuing to smile that smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Elizaveta Hedervary," she introduced herself as the hand was shaken by the two.

"Is Loke okay?" asked Tino nervously, re-entwining their fingers.

"Ah…" she started, the smile faltering for just a moment. "Can I have his last name?"

"He doesn' have one," Berwald muttered, looking down at the woman - Elizaveta - who was still sitting. When they'd adopted Loke, he'd been completely alone, and while Peter had a name and family, Loke…didn't. So, in the end, he was just 'Loke.'

Elizaveta gave an understanding nod, flipping through the pages of the clipboard. "L-O-K-E, right?" she asked, not bothering to look up for an answer. "Looks like he's going to be fine, and you two can visit him if you want. Room 752." She stood and slipped out from behind the desk, continuing to smile falsely. "I can take you to him."

"That would be very nice," Tino said politely, returning the smile shakily. He was glad Loke would be alright, of course, but he was still nervous as to what he'd see. Would he be covered in bandages and tubes, or just resting peacefully on the bed? Would he even be awake?

He watched as Elizaveta pressed a button on a small device on her shoulder, saying, "Raivis? Can you take over reception for a little while? … Thanks a ton!" She moved her perfectly manicured finger off the device and flashed another smile at the two, then motioned for them to follow her.

When they reached the metal door of Room 752, Elizaveta held it open for them, allowing the two to enter.

The room was white (too white), with a large window at one end of the room, covered by baby-blue curtains that let a bit of early morning sun in. On another wall was a small television, mounted near the ceiling and playing some kid's show, obviously not one Loke had picked. And across from that television was a grey metal bed, the only thing besides the curtains that wasn't white.

The sight of the boy in said bed made bile rise in Tino's throat. One arm was filled with tubes - medication, an IV, and many more that Tino couldn't see the purpose in - while the other was pale and limply hanging off the side. His small face was covered by a mask, pumping medication in that helped him to breath. His dark red hair was perfectly combed (exactly how he'd always hated it), though it was as limp as his arm. His skin was pale, and he looked younger than he ever had.

A small, strangled sound came from Berwald, who tightened his hold on Tino's hand. "He's asleep. Let's go," he muttered, already starting to tug the smaller man out of the room, past Elizaveta. "Don' wanna d'sturb him."

Tino could do nothing but follow, only breaking his gaze from the boy after the door had slammed shut behind them with a hollow sound. "If you want, I could be your counselor," Elizaveta offered quietly. The Finn could practically hear the false smile in her words. "I work a lot with couples that have children in the hospital."

"That'd be nice," Tino answered as they walked down the hall, footsteps echoing through the white metal.

"How about Thursdays? Does that work?" Elizaveta asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," answered the Finn, too tired to even think about returning her fake smile. Thursdays at the hospital so they could get over Loke's being sick.

He could think of worse ways to spend a few hours.

* * *

"_The words 'I Love You' kill, and resurrect millions, in less than a second." - Aberjhani_

* * *

Lukas stared at the object in the drawer disbelievingly, dark eyes wide. Why would Lovino have something like this, something so dangerous, so illegal? His boyfriend had always been hot-headed, and not the best when it came to driving, but other than the occasional speeding ticket, he was a law-abiding citizen. He'd never thought…

Footsteps. Footsteps coming down the stairs. The Norwegian tensed and slammed the drawer shut a little too loudly, forcing himself to command a deadpan expression as he looked through another drawer. "Morning," he said sarcastically as the Italian stepped into the room, though it was close to four in the afternoon. "Sleep okay?"

"Yeah," answered Lovino, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. There was hope that Lovino couldn't figure out what Lukas had found. He didn't want to confront the Italian about it yet - there was no telling what his reaction would be. He'd probably deny everything. "What're ya looking for?"

"Stapler," he answered vaguely, saying the first thing that came to mind.

Lovino huffed, turning to leave the room. "Whatever," he said as he started down the metal hallway, towards the living room.

Once the footsteps had faded, Lukas let out a small sigh of relief, opening the drawer from earlier. Yep, the gun was still there. He'd hoped it had been just a strange daydream, and his heart sank when he realized it wasn't true.

Slowly, he reached out and picked it up. The metal was cool to the touch, but strangely, not dusty. Had Lovino been using it recently? He felt sick to his stomach at the thought of Lovino killing anything…or anyone.

"Hey Lukas, I - " The Italian-accented voice was cut short as he reached the doorway of the office. Lukas completely froze, unable to do anything but stand there, holding the gun that Lovino had tried so hard to keep hidden. "…Where did you get that?" he asked quietly, his voice emotionless.

"You should keep your secrets hidden better," was all Lukas managed to say, staring at the man in the doorway.

Neither of them spoke or moved for several minutes. The only sound was the ticking of the clock and the small, padded footsteps of their cat somewhere in the house. "Don't go sneaking through my stuff!" Lovino finally shouted, slapping the gun out of Lukas's hands. It clattered to the floor, causing the Norwegian to take in a sharp breath of fear. He hadn't dealt with guns in a while, and he wasn't sure if this one was stable or not. "I kept that a secret for a _reason!_"

"What, so you can get away with killing people and no one would ever find out?" Lukas snapped back, hands folded tightly over his chest. "I may be your boyfriend, but I'm a government worker first, and don't think I'll hesitate to turn you in!"

"You think I _kill _people?" the other growled, running a hand through his dark hair and gripping it. "_God, _you're so fucking _stupid! _I'm not a damn killer, Lukas, and I never have been!"

"You were in the War!"

It's a low blow, and they both knew it. The pale Norwegian watched his boyfriend's face go from incredibly hurt, to incredibly depressed, to incredibly angry. "That was different," he growled, and with that, he left the room and left Lukas standing alone in the office.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not too sure about how well this came out, especially the last part. :/ Ah, well, I'm just glad to have finished another chapter so soon!**

**R&R! Reviews make me write faster!**


	3. Chapter 3

Antonio stared in horror at the blade still resting on the floor, his heart pounding and his breathing ragged. There was no way that could have been real…right? …Right. It was just lack of sleep, or stress, or something. Nothing to worry about.

After a few minutes, when he'd gotten his breath back, he slowly leaned over and picked up the blade, keeping the cloth as a barrier between his hand and the metal. Even if it was just some kind of hallucination, he didn't want to repeat it.

"'Ntonio? Y'alright 'n there?" came Mathias's voice from the dining room, his mouth obviously still full of food.

The Spaniard quickly forced a smile onto his face and started into the dining room, holding the blade as far away from himself as he could without it seeming suspicious. "Yeah, I'm fine!" he answered, entering the dining room. "Here's that blade back," he added to Emil, setting the bloodstained piece of metal on the table in front of him. Emil nodded his thanks, still eating.

The room was silent for several minutes, save for the sounds of silverware clinking against plates. Even Mathias was silent, for once. It was like some sort of cloud of silence had descended on the house, which was strange for them.

It didn't take long for Antonio to stand, mumbling a quick, "I've gotta go," before bursting out of the house and running towards the beach.

The early-morning sun hit the water perfectly, turning the normally greenish-blue water to a blazing orange, like liquid fire. Normally, Antonio wasn't awake early enough to see this - he'd always been a late sleeper. But today was different. Today, he had a goal, and that goal was to decipher what the effect of that blade had been.

It was obvious that it had brought back some kind of memory, though whether that memory was his or someone else's, he couldn't tell. It was probably his, though, he mused inwardly...Emil hadn't seemed affected by it, even when he was gripping it hard enough to draw blood.

There was that strange boy, who had shot him in the shoulder. But guns had been outlawed long before the War...hadn't they? ...Yes, a few decades before the War. So how had this boy come to get one?

He supposed it didn't matter much - the only thing that mattered was that he'd been shot.

What language had that boy been speaking...? It sounded almost like Spanish, but not quite. Not close enough that he could understand it, anyway. Now that he thought about it, what had _he _been saying? It was in Spanish, sure, but beyond that, he had no idea. Staring out at the water, he tried a few words out: _Hola. Me llamo Antonio. _They felt natural on his tongue, more natural than the English ever would.

The brunette sighed and sat on a nearby rock, his head in his hands. He was overreacting, obviously...it had just been some strange dream.

...Right?

"Sheesh, what's his problem?" Mathias asked around a mouthful of food, staring at his long-time friend. Antonio had just gotten up and left - it made no sense. Antonio wasn't the type to do things without explaining them.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Emil half-answered, rolling his eyes. While the Dane saw them as friends, Emil always figured he was more like a big brother (even if he _was _younger), having to explain everything to Mathias a million times over before he understood. "And you used to be an empire..."

The blond laughed at that, bits of food flying across the table. "Not quite an empire, Ice, just a huge-ass kingdom," he explained with a grin.

"Kingdom. Empire. Whatever. You're still an idiot."

Mathias held a hand to his heart dramatically, fluttering his eyes as though in immense pain. "Ouch. What a bone-crushing blow to my projects that was."

"Prospects," corrected Emil, rolling his eyes again. Hopefully, he could steer the Dane clear of the subject of Antonio. It wasn't something he wanted to discuss, especially with the way Mathias would probably react.

"Prospects," repeated Mathias. "All idiocracy - "

"Idiocy."

" - aside, what's up with Antonio?"

"Hell if I know," answered Emil, though it was a lie. He had the vaguest idea of what had happened to Antonio…it had happened to him, too, though he wouldn't tell Mathias that.

The Dane stared into the violet eyes intently, switching to Serious Mathias and causing Emil to shove another forkful of food into his mouth nervously. "You sure?" he asked, and his voice lacked the cheerfulness it had had only a few moments before.

"Positive," he answered after swallowing, though he couldn't bring himself to meet the other's eyes. He supposed it could be counted as the truth…after all, he barely remembered why he'd come over, much less why Antonio would be freaking out. Or so he would say.

Even as he thought over the lies he'd already told Mathias and planned the lies he'd undoubtedly have to tell later, the memories of what the importance of the blade was and why he'd come over were beginning to fade, until they were nothing.

He had to get that blade back, Antonio knew. He had to touch it one more time, see what it could do, find out why that random memory/dream had come to him.

Just one more time…just one more…

* * *

_"You are my butterfly and I refuse to set you free." - Shannon Hale_

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit,_" repeated Arthur over and over, pacing around his living room with one hand clutching at his hair in anger. "Why the hell did they have to - I just wanted to keep this _one _- is that so wrong?"

Francis sighed, standing with a dustpan full to the brim. He'd made it his personal duty to clean up Arthur's house and make it livable again, in the hopes that, maybe, it would lift the Brit's spirit's a bit. "Calm down, _ami_," he said gently, though they both knew they'd never be friends. No matter what they had in common, no matter how often Francis was in England (which was quite often), they would never and _could _never be friends. It was just how things were supposed to go. "I'm sure he'll be able to send another message soon, right?"

"That was the first message in _two years_," Arthur snapped back at him, continuing to pace. His bare feet kicked up dust that Francis had tried so hard to keep contained, spreading to places that had been cleaned for the first time in years.

The Frenchman fell silent, simply continuing to clean. The computer across the room still displayed the same haunting message it had hours before, the message they'd seen before, but had never come to like. "Two years…" he muttered to himself after a minute, dumping the contents of the dustpan into the trashcan. Had it really been that long? He tried to think of the last time he'd talked to Matthew, but came up blank.

Arthur slumped down on the old couch, his head in his hands. "Two. Damn. Years," he muttered, mostly to himself. Two years since he'd been able to hear what Alfred had to say…twenty since he'd seen his boyfriend. Too long. Far too long.

It was several minutes of silence before Francis spoke again. "Arthur, I know you miss him - "

"I more than _miss him!_" he shouted suddenly, though he didn't move his hands away from his face. "I _need _to see him again, you don't understand!"

"Don't interrupt me," the Frenchman spat, his temper rising quickly. "I've listened to you whine and moan about missing Alfred for twenty years now! It's time for you to stop acting like a damn hormonal teenage girl, get off your ass, and _live your life!_ Do you think Alfred would want you to be acting like this?" He'd completely quit cleaning now, the dustpan resting forgotten on the floor. Arthur looked up at him, glaring, with one eyebrow raised. Francis could clearly see the hurt in those eyes, but he went on anyway, too far into his rant to stop. "Look at yourself!" he shouted, motioning to Arthur and the room around him. "You're a mess! You're turning your life into a mess! And I don't care if you don't care about yourself, but when you keep dragging _moi _into this, you're making it my problem, too!"

"Francis - "

"Shut up," he growled, gripping the vase at the top of the mantle and flinging it at Arthur's head, very much in the same way Arthur had greeted him earlier. "Shut up and listen to me for once in your miserable life!

"I've tried to fix your life for you for _twenty years _now, and you haven't done a damn thing to help me or help yourself! You're barely a shadow of who you once were, and it's all because of your boyfriend! You think I don't miss Matthew? I do! I miss him so damn much! But I don't sit on my ass and complain all day!" He was really shouting at the Brit now, his accent much more pronounced. He hadn't yelled at anybody like this in so long…he tended to think of himself as a lover, not a fighter, despite his impressive military record. But now, he had no choice.

"Francis - " Arthur tried again, slowly standing.

"I'm not listening to you anymore," Francis growled, and with that (and slamming a picture to the ground), he stalked out the door, throwing an "_Au revoir_" over his shoulder.

The house was silent for several minutes, Arthur standing completely still in the middle of the disarray and disgust of his house. He could do nothing but think about what Francis had said... The worst part was, he knew it was all true.

After a minute, he gritted his teeth and started towards the computer, pressing the power button until it went completely black. He didn't want to see that message anymore.

He had to get his life back on track.

For Alfred.

* * *

_"The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love." - Kristina McMorris_

* * *

"You two are lucky, y'know," said Elizaveta, sitting behind the mahogany desk with her legs crossed and hands folded in front of her. "All the other doctors have this 'mom-and-dad' script. I'm the only one that doesn't." With that, she gave a smile that was a bit too large, as though to say 'aren't you just the luckiest?'

Berwald narrowed his eyes slightly at that, but said nothing. Tino, on the other hand, answered with an overly-enthusiastic return that was really just nerves. "I guess we are lucky, then, because everywhere else we've gone has said something about the mother and - " He stopped, seeing the looks Elizaveta and Berwald were giving him. "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.

Elizaveta's too-bright-to-be-real smile returned, in an attempt to be reassuring. "Oh, it's no problem, really!" she chirped happily. "So, ah...how did you come to find Loke?"

The two looked at each other for the slightest moment, silently agreeing that Berwald would tell the story. He'd be better at it, anyway. "Ah..." he started a bit awkwardly. "...'T goes like this."

_The small boy is sitting against a tree, hugging his knees to his chest. "Stupid..." he mutters to himself, in hopes of fending off the cold air somehow. "Stupid parents..." He tosses a rock across the frozen ground, glaring as it skids away._

_"Lost?"_

_He whirls around, doing his best to appear intimidating, despite the fact that he's small and shaking with cold. "It's none of your business!" he shouts, hoping to alert someone out there to this strange possible-kidnapper/rapist/murderer._

_The voice laughs lightly, holding out a hand almost as small as his own. "C'mon," he says kindly, a small grin on his face. "You can come stay with me and my dads for a while, if you want!"_

_Slowly, the redhead took the boy's hand, meeting his gaze coolly. "If you're trying to kill me or something - "_

_"Kill you? Why would I want to do that?" The boy's face is genuinely confused as he pulls the redhead along through the cold so thick you can almost touch it._

_He doesn't reply, only follows this strange boy. "Here, you can take my coat!" the small blond says, holding out his thick winter coat to him. The boy doesn't question it, only wraps the thick material around himself tightly. "My name's Peter, by the way!" he says jovially after a few minutes. "What's your's?"_

_"Don't have one," he answers quietly, already feeling much better because of the coat._

_Peter looks at him in shock, gripping his shoulders and facing him. "...You're a new nation, aren't you?" he asks simply and quietly, to avoid detection. Gritting his teeth, the boy nods. "Then you'll fit right in!" With that, he continues down the street._

_It's not long before they reach the wooded house, the redhead looking around through the barren trees. It should be terrifying, but strangely, he feels at home._

_Peter bursts through the door of the house, the boy in tow, shouting, "Tino, Berwald, I found this kid in the middle of the woods and I think he needs help!"_

_There is a sound of clattering dishes into the sink, and a shout of "_Mitä?!", _before anyone enters the room. First comes Tino, his eyes wild with worry. Behind him is Berwald, regarding the two boys coolly. "Poor kid, where're you hurt?" asks Tino nervously, nearly bouncing up and down in nervousness._

_The tall Swede sets a hand on the other's shoulder, calming him quickly, before kneeling down to face the two boys. Peter's face is grinning, while the boy behind him looks expressionless, or scared if anything. "What's yer name?" Berwald asks simply._

_"He doesn't have one," Peter answers for him._

_Berwald looks over him for another moment before standing and annoucning, "Loke," with a definitive nod._

_"Is that an okay name?" Tino adds, offering him a smile. The boy - Loke - nods, returning the smile ever so slightly. "C'mon, Loke, I'll go get you something to eat and drink. You look like you need it!"_

"...And that's how we found him," finished Tino, looking into Elizaveta's intrigued eyes.

She smiled then, a real smile, and leaned towards them a bit. During the course of the story, she'd moved from behind her desk to the top of it, her legs crossed in front of her. "You care about him a lot, don't you?"

The two nodded silently, Tino twiddling his thumbs nervously.

"Then I think he'll be just fine. As my profession diagnosis," she added with a small laugh. "You two should go home now. Talk to Peter, and tell him what happened, alright?"

"'Lright," Berwald said, standing slowly. Tino stood with him, hands in his jacket pockets. "Th'nk ya for yer time, Ms. Hed'rvary."

"It's my pleasure," she answered with a small wink and a smile.

With that, the metal door closed hollowly behind them, the sound echoing in the small wooden room.

* * *

_"Imagine there's no countries  
It isn't hard to do." - John Lennon_

* * *

"Stupid..." Lukas grumbled to himself, slamming the heel of his hand into his forehead. He'd fucked up, bringing up the War, and he knew that Lovino would be angry at him for days.

It wasn't like him to try and apologize - a lot of the time, they would just stay completely silent towards each other for a while, and it would blow over - but this time, he felt he had to. He'd found Lovino's most closely guarded secret.

"Hey, Lovino..." he called to the house, his words echoing a bit due to the high metal ceilings. "Lovino?"

There was no answer from anywhere in the house. Their cat - a small, black-and-white thing named Liten - bumped her head against Lukas's leg, mewing up at him.

He absently kneeled down to pet her, muttering to himself quietly. "He can't have left...I know him better than that...he's probably up in his room, sulking or something." He turned his gaze on Liten, dark eyes meeting shining honey eyes. "What do you think?"

She didn't respond, of course, only purred and rubbed her head against his hand, as cats tend to do.

He sighed and stood, earning a small 'mew' of protest. "Sorry," he muttered with a small sigh. "I'll be back later, girl. I've just got to talk to Lovino." The Norwegian had always loved animals, which was the main reason he'd talked Lovino into getting a cat. Not one day had gone by where he regretted the decision.

Lukas started towards Lovino's room, knocking quietly on the door. "Hey, Lovino?"

No answer.

He tried again. "Lovino?"

No answer.

The blond was starting to get a bit worried. Usually, Lovino would have yelled at him by now... "I'm coming in!" he warned, and with that, he swung the metal door open.

The room was completely empty. Empty, that is, except for...

Lukas felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of what was near the window. The bedsheets were thrown about haphazardly, one pillow halfway across the room. A picture of the two laid on the floor, shattered glass around it. One drawer was open to the point that it was barely hanging on; the rest were only pulled out halfway. It almost looked like one of Lovino's normal tantrums, if a bit extreme, except...

Except for the small trail of blood leading out the window.

* * *

**A/N: Ohoho, cliffhanger! :D I know, I suck.**

**Another chapter I'm not too sure about...and it's kinda late. *sob***

**I promise the next one will be better!**


	4. Chapter 4

It was time for Emil to leave. He'd been at the coastal house for three days now, and he normally only stayed for a day or two. He had some business to attend to back home, he claimed. Besides, he had a headache.

The trio started towards the airport, with Antonio driving and Mathias and Emil in the backseat. Mathias talked for most of the ride, mostly about pointless things. Emil was mostly silent, only speaking up every once in a while to correct Mathias's grammar. And Antonio was completely silent, which was strange for him.

His mind hadn't gotten off the strange memory induced by the blade. For the last three days, he'd been working on remembering more and more Spanish. He'd managed to remember enough to have a conversation (with himself, admittedly), and it seemed more natural to him than the English ever would.

But, despite the progress he'd made, he couldn't bring himself to ask Emil for the blade again. It would definitely alert him to something suspicious, and he certainly didn't want that.

Mathias knew about his rediscovery of the language - they always told each other everything, no matter how strange or secret. They both agreed, though, not to tell Emil. If he knew what the blade had done, he'd either have a panic attack, or claim that Mathias and Antonio were both crazy. In fact, Mathias had thought Antonio was crazy when he first told him. It took a lot of convincing, but he finally managed to prove that he wasn't crazy.

A half hour later, they were at the Copenhagen airport, where Emil would board the plane that would bring him back to his home in Akureyi.

He was taking the blade with him.

Antonio almost, almost protested that, but managed to keep himself quiet, not wanting to reveal himself. So, he said nothing when Emil packed the blade in his bag, and he said nothing when it wasn't brought up again.

Mathias and Antonio went with him as far as they could go before bidding him good-bye, at which point, Emil had to go alone.

_The only good thing about Europe being a country is that I don't have to go through customs, _the pale man mused inwardly as he sat in the boarding gate, fiddling with his handheld. It was extremely fortunate, considering how often he visited Antonio and Mathias, and how short the visits usually were.

It wasn't long before the plane boarded...after all, he'd never been the type to be very early for things. Usually, he was just on time, not early, not late.

The plane seemed far too cramped to him, filled with crying babies and seat-kicking children and absolutely filled to the brim with people. He missed the days when he'd had the presidential plane, but it had been demolished when the president was overthrown.

As he got closer and closer to his home, his memories began to flood back, memories he hadn't even realized had been missing. Emil cried out in pain at the sudden flood, gripping the sides of his head tightly. Several people turned to look at him as though he were the strangest thing they'd ever seen, and a few parents pulled their children closer to them.

_I visited Antonio and Mathias to give them the blade._

_I used to have a President._

_The capital of Iceland was Reykjavik._

He gasped, collapsing against the seat. What had just _happened..._?

The house was extremely quiet, hardly a sound, save for the crashing of the waves against the nearby shore and the scribbling of his pen against the paper.

_June 19th, 2153_

_I keep wondering why I stay here. Sometimes, I just don't see any reason to. It's nothing like my home - there's waves instead of mountains, and it's far colder than I'm used to. It's also light out here a lot; the sun rarely sets. The language is insane, and I can't seem to get the hang of things around here. I'm certainly out of my element._

_But...I can remember her. As long as I'm here, as long as the closet is full, she can stay in my memories._

_Sometimes, I just look at the uniforms and remember her. I wish I could go back...I wish I could see her again, without having to worry. It would be great if things were like they were back in the Before Time. But then, I doubt she remembers the Before Time._

_Maybe I_

"I'm back!" came Emil's voice, accompanied by the sound of a bag dropping to the ground.

"Welcome back," the blond answered, setting down the pen and closing the journal. Emil didn't know about the journal, and he intended to keep it that way. "Did you give Antonio the blade?"

Emil sighed, entering the room the other was in. "_Já_, but I don't think it did any good. He didn't say anything about it."

"Maybe it was meant for Mathias," he mused, fiddling with the pen absently. "He had an axe, too, didn't he? Or still has?"

The Icelandic man shrugged, running a hand through his silvery hair. "It's in his room," he answered simply. "Meaning, I don't have it, and he still does. I don't think he uses it, though...it was dusty, and so was the rest of the room."

The blond shrugged as well, meeting Emil's almost-violet eyes with piercing green ones. "...Maybe you could try the crown," he suggested, a bit lamely. He used to be full of such good ideas...but after the War had hit him so hard, he hadn't been nearly as quick.

"I don't know if it's from Denmark or Bavaria..." Emil muttered. "And I can't identify it, since it's from the Before Time, and the EuroNet doesn't show anything from then. No pictures, no portraits..."

His companion sighed and stood, shaking his hair out of his face. "You did your best, and I know you will continue to do so," he stated, the authority in his voice returning for just a moment. "I expect you to continue."

Emil sighed and nodded, closing his eyes. He was already tired from the long plane ride, and his headache was even worse now. He knew it would fade soon, as it always did after coming back from the mainland. "I will. Don't worry." For a moment, he opened one eye, expression serious. "And I'll make sure I can get to Lili."

With a small huff and a nod, Vash left the room, closing the door behind him. Emil needed sleep.

* * *

_How is it possible to have a civil war? - George Carlin_

* * *

After hours of working, Arthur's house was something like what it used to be, back before the War. The pictures were no longer crooked, the dust was gone, the trash was emptied, and the cigarettes were thrown away. The only thing left to do was to cut his hair, which he could do later.

He'd had his mail open on the computer screen all day as he cleaned, hoping that 'Amelia Smith' would send him another message. As unlikely as it was, he couldn't help but hope that Alfred had been able to permanently hack the EuroNet.

Now, with his life back together, all that was left was to tell Francis. The phone seemed to stare at him menacingly, following him as he walked around the house.

Francis's words from earlier were still hurting...they'd been too harsh. Even with everything he could say, as cruel as he could be, Francis was always the one to stay calm. When he lashed out like that...Arthur could tell that it was two decades of pent-up anger coming out all at once, and it wasn't pleasant to be on the receiving end.

It took him nearly a half hour to get up the courage to pick up the phone and dial Francis's number. On the fifth ring, he finally picked up.

"_Ouias_?" the Frenchman spat into the phone, obviously still upset about earlier.

"I'm sorry," Arthur blurted quickly, knowing that otherwise, it would be impossible for him to say it. "I...I did some cleaning, and I'm trying to get my life together."

There was a huff on the other end of the line, accompanied with, "Good for you."

"So...will you help me contact - " he dropped his voice a bit, knowing the EuroNet might be listening. " - Alfred?"

There was only silence on the other end.

"Or Matthew?" He tried again.

"...Who is Matthew?" was the reply.

Arthur's mouth was slightly agape at the question. Sure, he himself had forgotten Matthew's name a few times (more than he'd like to admit), but Francis...Francis always remembered his adopted son. "Matthew Williams..."

"Arthur, I think you need some sleep. I'm glad you have your life together, at least a bit, but now you're imagining people."

"But - !" he protested, gripping the phone angrily.

"No buts," Francis interrupted him. "Sleep. _A beintot._" With that, he hung up, the phone buzzing a monotone in Arthur's ear.

* * *

_Do you think it's possible for an entire nation to be insane? - Terry Pratchett_

* * *

"Welcome back!" chirped Elizaveta, her smile just a bit more genuine than the last time. "And you brought Peter!"

The boy simply responded with an angered growl, his eyes blazing. "How is my brother doing?" he snapped.

Loke's sickness had hit the boy hard. He'd been the one to discover him, to bring him home, to be his brother, best friend, and mentor. When he'd fallen unconscious in the middle of their gaming session, and Peter hadn't noticed, something inside of him had broken.

Tino and Berwald both knew that Peter had had a harsh childhood...after all, he'd been abandoned the minute he was replaced, and it was pure luck that Berwald had found him. Sure, he hid it behind a smile...but everybody has a breaking point, even the happiest of people.

"Peter. Be polite," Berwald ordered stiffly, looking down at the boy.

"Make me," he challenged, and if he were still the same boy as he'd been a week ago, it would have looked sort of cute. But with the way he looked now - dark eyes, a paler complexion, and altogether mature in the way no one wants to be - it looked almost intimidating.

"How is Loke doing?" Tino cut in, before it got too heated. Berwald and Peter had been fighting quite a bit lately...they were each extremely close to Loke. And while Tino was close to Loke, as well, he managed to keep his calm..._someone _had to.

"Ah..." Elizaveta checked the clipboard quickly, flipping through a few pages. "...His condition is stable. It isn't getting worse, but it isn't getting better, either." She shook her head sadly, setting the clipboard down. "I honestly don't know what's wrong w - "

"I'll tell you what's wrong with him!" Peter shouted angrily. "He needs the Internet to survive! If this damn EuroNet keeps - "

"Peter!" growled Berwald, glaring down at him. "Don't ya _dare _say such things."

The boy huffed, but fell silent, knowing it was futile to fight. After all, it wasn't Berwald's wrath he had to fear, but the EuroNet's...and they were much less forgiving.

* * *

_I'm ruined beyond repair, is what I fear…And if so, in time we'd both be wretched and bitter. I know people can be mended. Not all, and some more immediately than others. But some can be. I don't see why not you. Why not me? - Charles Frazier_

* * *

Lukas stared disbelievingly at the trail of blood, and the state of disarray the room was in. Lovino would never let himself get caught so easily...he'd always been a fighter, and if anybody tried to take him, it would take them much longer than the time Lukas spent looking for him.

Why hadn't he heard any screaming, though? If Lovino were in real danger, he'd be screaming like a banshee, and if he were just angry, he'd be shouting insults.

None of this added up.

Normally, Lukas wasn't one to get upset easily. He was the calm one, while Lovino was the emotional one. But now, at the thought of losing him...his blood ran cold.

He ran through all the possibilities in his mind, trying to stay calm as he did so.

Possibility 1: Lovino was in some other part of the house, or he had left entirely, and a wounded animal had gotten in through the open window.

_Not likely. An animal wouldn't do that much damage, and nothing besides a bird or a squirrel could get through the two-story window. Besides, how could an animal pull out the drawers?_

Possibility 2: It wasn't blood, just some sort of elaborate prank.

_Lovino wasn't the pranking type._

Possibility 3: ...

_Face it. He was kidnapped or attacked and now you don't know where he is._

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew he didn't have many options...but he had to find Lovino somehow. He just had to.

One person stood out in his mind, the one that always knew exactly what to do: Emil. They'd been close since the beginning, and not even the War could change that, as it had for so many people.

With that thought in mind, he pulled out his handheld, dialing Emil's number with slightly shaky fingers.

No one answered.

He tried again.

No answer.

By the third try, he was starting to get impatient, gripping the phone a bit too tightly. His gaze wandered around the room as he listened to the ringing, finally landing on an oddly-colored piece of paper resting on top of the nightstand.

He reached over and grabbed it quickly, looking over the sheet. Even without reading it, he could tell it was bad news. The paper was thick, so the ink wouldn't bleed through. The words were carefully written, as though it had been planned days in advance. And it was all written on the government's stationary.

The first part was typed, as though it were just a slightly altered copy of a letter.

_Mr. Bondevik,_

_It is our understanding that your housemate, a Mr. Lovino Vargas, has been in possession of an illegal piece of weaponry. He will be under federal arrest until the issue is resolved._

_Thank you._

Someone on the other line picked up: "Hello? Lukas?" But he didn't bother answering.

Underneath that message was a handwritten one, one that sent chills up Lukas's spine.

_We told him so many times that guns are illegal. We've known his little 'secret' for years now, Lukas, and to think we didn't is just ignorant and naive._

"Lukas?"

_Don't try to hide anything from us. We'll always find out._

"Is everything alright?"

_I am not part of the government. I __am__ the government._

The line went dead.

_I will not tell you who I am. Not yet. That's the fun in this game called Europe._

* * *

**A/N: Bad chapter is bad. I apologize profusely.**

**Peter is OOC. Arthur is OOC. Vash is OOC. It took forever to write. Everything seems rushed. I promise the next will be better, but there were a few plotpoints I had to throw out there!**

**Thanks to everyone for reading this, and to the lovely blog that's reviewing it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: A few things to say about the last chapter:**

**1) In the part where Emil is on the plane and it starts talking about a house, there was supposed to be a linebreak there, but it got deleted. :/ Sorry for the confusion.**

**2) This is a flashback chapter!**

**3) My browser decided to shut down while I was writing this chapter and I lost EVERYTHING. Then I had computer issues and I can't charge my laptop anymore. As soon as I get a new charger, this will be back up and running like normal!**

* * *

_2130_

* * *

"_Kør_," Mathias whispered to himself, a small trickle of blood running down his cheek. He couldn't stop running - if he did, he'd surely be dead soon. After all, plenty of people knew how to kill a nation, many more people than had known in the past. Telling himself to run would be the only way he could keep forcing himself to...he was exhausted, absolutely exhausted.

Deep into the woods, he collapsed, leaning against a tree trunk and breathing heavily. It was hard for him to believe that something like a war could bring a once-mighty kingdom to his knees, but then, this war had taken more lives than any he'd seen before.

His life had changed so drastically... Lukas, Emil, Tino, and Berwald had left, going off to fight their own battles. (All except Tino, that is; Berwald would never let him fight. But then again, when it came to fighting, Tino wouldn't let anyone go on their own.)

He sighed, struggling to keep his eyes open. Why had this _happened? _None of them knew for sure, except maybe Basch. But he'd disappeared so long ago...

Too many people had disappeared. Basch, Feliciano, Ivan. Mathias was tired of everybody disappearing, never to be seen again.

But when he thought about it, all of them had disappeared. He himself hadn't talked to his family in years, since a few months after the war started, after all. None of them had really made an effort to see each other, true, but he still missed them...and they were family.

Right?

He wouldn't be surprised if they still hated him. It was centuries ago, but he'd been a real jackass, and he knew it. Berwald had said it himself: _'I will never forgive you!'_

The Dane sighed, hitting the back of his head against the tree. Maybe this was why he was always so happy...it was easier to be happy than to dwell on the mistakes of his past.

Maybe, if he acted happy enough, his family would forgive him.

All he knew was that he was sick of this war, and he just wanted it to end. He'd already lost so much...his family, his home, his sense of self...and with this war, it didn't look like he'd be getting any of those back.

He let his eyes slip shut, the pain of his hundreds of cuts and bruises washing over him again. This was why he hated fighting...it always hurt, always.

As he lamented silently to himself, he didn't notice a few things.

One: The smoke in the air was making it harder to breath.

Two: His wounds were stinging even more now, and he'd probably lose too much blood if he didn't get help.

Three: Someone, unaware of the blond, was just a few meters away.

* * *

_"I'll pretend, I tell myself. Pretending is safer than believing." -Sarah Miller_

* * *

"Speak English!" Antonio shouted, his patience wearing as thin as the rope holding up one of the victims of war. Maybe he should have learned this man's language; after all, he'd had plenty of time to do so. But, like his former charge, he didn't take well to new languages.

The dark-haired man growled angrily, but repeated, "I said, let me go! You've got your damn people, and they're sure as hell not gonna betray you! You don't need me anymore!"

"Like you betrayed me?" the Spaniard hissed, ignoring the last sentence of the man's half-rant. "I was up for weeks!"

Just a few years prior, Antonio had been nearly killed by this man he'd once had the fortune to call his friend. It was so strange to him...they'd gone from allies to friends to...something more...and if he had moved one second later, Lovino would have stabbed him in the back, both literally and figuratively.

The Italian looked at a loss for words, so instead of speaking, he tried to wrench his wrist free of Antonio's hold. "Let me go!" he demanded again, shouting over the din of the war. "I don't want to talk to you right now!"

"You've never wanted to talk to me!" Antonio shouted angrily. It was a lie, he knew, told in a fit of anger. Lovino had come to him for more problems than he could count, and he would always be there when Antonio needed to vent.

Lovino didn't seem to appreciate the lie too much, and raced forward, shouting angrily and wielding a knife. The Spaniard managed to mostly dodge the blade, Lovino only slicing a bit of skin on his arm.

He whirled quickly on the boy, axe in hand and the blade glinting dangerously. He didn't _wan t _to kill Lovino; far from it. But the man had brought out Antonio's dark side, the one reserved for piracy and conquest and bloodshed, and now he couldn't hold back.

Before he could do anything, though, the weapon clattered out of his hands, pain exploding in his shoulder. It felt like it was on fire, it hurt so bad, and there was a gaping wound. And smoke. And a piece of metal in Lovino's hand that had caused it.

A gun wound.

Guns had been outlawed in 2062 - everyone knew that. So how had Lovino come to be in possession of one? Even Basch had given up his favorite means of protection, switching to a crossbow.

Lovino's glare was cold, hazel eyes that Antonio had once adored for their emotional levels changed to ice. Without a word, the Spaniard ran, blood dripping behind him as he raced towards the woods.

He collapsed against a tree hours later, short of breath and dizzy from bloodloss. He'd covered the wound with a scrap of shirt, but it wasn't enough, and he knew it.

As a nation, he could regenerate blood quickly, he knew. He'd be fine in a few weeks, maximum.

Then again, though, a broken heart doesn't function properly.

* * *

_'As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let us down, probably will.' - Unknown_

* * *

The war raged on just outside the window, Arthur knew. He knew that it was dark out there, painfully so, and that there would be more deaths tonight. There were always deaths, always.

Francis had told him that it wasn't as bad in England (or, really, the British Isles in general) as it was on the mainland, but Arthur couldn't be sure. It was horrible here, the worst war he'd ever seen...and he'd seen some pretty bloody wars in his time.

None of them could compare to this.

He was frequently and almost invariably alone. No one wanted to risk travel, what with all the people on the planes who carried their guns and knives with them. (Security didn't matter to them anymore. Nothing did.) Every once in a while, he'd get a visit from his brother, Aodh, but that was very rarely. After all, they hadn't gotten along well in the first place, why should that change because of war?

His people were suffering. He knew this, and he knew that he could do nothing about it. It was painful to hear the screams at night and the cries in the day. The pleas for the war to end, for mother, for someone to come back from the point of no return.

Arthur stared at nothing (though perhaps it was a painting on the wall), trying to think about nothing, to listen to nothing outside, to become nothing himself. It was so much easier to dodge the war than to stop it.

He'd tried to stop it before, really. He'd done everything he could, things that he hadn't done since he was younger. But it never worked. There were always more to defeat, more lives to save, more battles to be won.

It would have been easier if it were one side against another, but it wasn't. It was a million sides fighting everybody else. And that was too much...too much...

He fell back against the couch, eyes closed. Maybe he could just live with Alfred...it wasn't like the suggestion hadn't been brought up. They'd been talking about getting a house for a while. That is, until the war started, and Arthur had to be there for his people. But now...

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. He was English - he was _England, _and he'd be damned if he ran off to a foreign country while his people were suffering!

He'd just have to stick it out a little longer...right?

* * *

_'What can bombs know of the illuminated fields so golden with heaven in your heart's sacred lands?' - Aberjhani_

* * *

It was too cold here. Too cold and too dangerous, yet somehow safer than his own home. Basch (_No, _he reminded himself. _Vash. I had to change it.) _missed his home, missed the mountains and the lakes and the rivers and clear blue skies uninterrupted. But those things were lost to him now. Lost to war.

Emil was probably one of the kindest people he'd ever met, taking him into his home, hiding him from the people who wanted him dead. And, truly, everyone wanted him dead. He'd been the first to sign the Bill of End, the very thing that took away freedom. It was one of his only recent non-neutral decisions...and it had been the stupidest mistake he'd ever made.

When his people had found out that their Internet, their travel, their everything had been taken away, it wasn't received well. No one knew who had started it (they couldn't know of Vash, or any of the nations), so they blamed everybody. They blamed neighbors in government and far-off people with nothing to offer. They blamed friends and family. They blamed everyone but themselves and Vash.

So, he was forced to watch as his country was slowly torn apart. His sister had more or less disappeared, only sending letters every once in a while. He couldn't blame her - she was too young for this, too young and naive. But the moment she'd seen death, something had changed. She seemed older, wiser, more...morose, he supposed was the word. Or maybe not. He didn't know much of anything anymore.

As he sat, stewing in silence, Emil was in the other room, looking over documents. A formal declaration of war was the only thing of importance, but it was unneeded. Everyone knew the war would have continued without any piece of paper.

Why had he let the Swiss man into his home, when he already in so much danger from the war alone? It was a mystery to himself, really, but it may have been his volcanic heart's soft spot. He couldn't let a man wanted for doing nothing more than trying to help his country be killed. It was immoral.

Besides...he was all too familiar with death. The days he'd watched Mathias kill over a hundred of Berwald's citizens...he shuddered at the very thought.

He knew his country was the safest of all the European countries. It was so far off from the mainland...it had to be safe. He had very few citizens besides, and they were spread out, making it harder for them to fight each other. (Of course, though, he'd seen plenty of death in Reykjavik.)

He couldn't let Vash go through that. No, he had to keep up the charade that the blond was dead or disappeared. It was easier that way.

* * *

_'I prefer the most unfair peace to the most righteous war.' - Cicero__  
_

* * *

_Kør: _Run.

_Aodh_: A Gaelic name meaning 'fire.' My name for Scotland.

_The days he'd watched Mathias kill...: _In 1597, Denmark killed over 100 Swedish nobles in Stockholm. It was supposedly done to make a point to the Swedes, that Denmark would not be messed with.

_Reykjavik: _The capital city of Iceland.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Warning: This chapter is mostly filler. There were some things I had to set up for later chapters that will be huge plotpoints later, but right now, it's mostly filler.**

* * *

_June 19th, 2133_

_In my research, I've discovered that memories are not held to a person - they are held to an object which the person was in possession of. Touching said object will sharpen the memory for the person who held it or came into contact with it when the memory was being made, i.e. if someone held a book while a person walked into a room, the memory of the person walking in would be held in the book._

_Only the person who was present when the memory was being made will experience this. Touching an object unconnected to yourself will do nothing to sharpen a memory, or to give you one._

_Often times, a person does not realize that the object holds memories like this for them. They will already remember the basics of the memory, so holding the object will only sharpen the minor details. (I.e., if someone remembered someone else walking into a room, holding the book would help them to remember details like the color of the person's shirt.)_

_December 3rd, 2133_

_Note: this does not help people with amnesia._

These were the notes that Emil had written and forgotten about, shoved into the back of what was known as the Memory Closet. It was filled, absolutely filled with old military uniforms from every nation, along with other mementos. A sword, a boot, a book...a bloody blade.

He'd been trying for years to get everyone to remember. It was fortunate that his country was so far off from the mainland...whatever kind of magic or science or whatever worked over the mainland wasn't nearly as powerful here.

But every time he managed to get something to the mainland - it was nearly impossible to transport anything these days - he would soon forget why he had come in the first place, and leave, bringing the object with him.

Maybe, though, it had worked for somebody. Because he'd seen Antonio's eyes after he held the blade, and he'd heard him practicing Spanish in the mirror, and he _knew _that something was going on.

Maybe, just maybe, if he could forget one person to regain their memories...he wouldn't be so alone. It was sort of sad, with just him and Vash. He wasn't close enough to any of the other island nations, or any of the nation who owned islands, to ask if it was the same for them.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. _It's easier to forget the War, _he thought, _than to remember. _

And maybe that was the whole point.

* * *

"I don't care what you say, you _need _sleep!" Mathias protested, trying to force Antonio back into the bed. The Spaniard had been staying up late every night, getting only three hours of sleep or less, for the past week and a half, and the signs of it were obvious. He was lethargic, and had huge bags under his eyes; his hair was limp and he looked all in all miserable.

Antonio shoved against him, doing his best to glare. "I can't!" he protested, struggling against the tight hold Mathias had on his shoulders. He had to try and contact Emil...something weird was going on, it was obvious now, and Emil was the one who knew all about the weird and insane.

In truth, he'd been staying up late just so he could try and figure out what had happened. The incident with the blade hadn't once left his mind, and he was still trying to remember how to speak Spanish, still going over the memory in his mind, still focused entirely on remembering what had happened. (The scar on his shoulder wasn't from when his economy was horrible, and riots were breaking out - it was from the gunwound. It had to be.)

Unfortunately, that meant staying up late, which meant he was an entirely different person. When Antonio was tired enough, he'd go from a relatively carefree, somewhat airheaded person to a grumpy and meanspirited jackass, and that was exactly what was happening right now.

Strangely enough, Mathias was the same.

"Fine," the Dane finally spat, eyes dark. "Sleep, don't sleep, I don't give a shit! You can just go die for all I care!" He released his hold on Antonio's shoulders and turned on his heel, slamming the door open. "I'm going to Tino and Berwald's for a while," he hissed. "Don't wait for me." And with that, he closed the door loudly, the sound echoing in the large room.

"Fine!" Antonio shouted after him, hands clenched into fists. "Run away, just like you did all those other times!" Although, even as he spoke, he wasn't sure what he meant by that. Mathias had never been one to run away from a confrontation.

_"Just run away this time. Don't try and fight them," he muttered to himself, watching the man - barely more than a child - trying to fight off the invasion on his country._

_"I've gotta fight them," the man muttered, speaking through clenched teeth. He was tired of this war, they could both tell, but it had to be fought. He couldn't just run away this time._

* * *

_'No matter how far from war we run, it always catches up with us.' - Scott Westerfeld_

* * *

Francis was back at Arthur's house now, positively glaring at him. "It's three in the morning," he hissed. "Do you have _any _idea how hard it is to get a plane at this hour?"

"Who is Matthew?" Arthur asked in response, entirely ignoring the man's rant. His eyes were wild as he spoke, his hands wringing together nervously.

The Frenchman raised an eyebrow, regarding the other coolly. "My son," he answered, speaking through clenched teeth. "If you called me over here to make another joke about how he's 'invisible', I swear I will - "

Arthur waved him off quickly, letting out a sigh of relief. A moment later, though, he added, "And why did you say you don't know who he is over the phone?"

"I never said anything like that," the other hissed, turning to the heavy metal door. "Now leave me alone. I'm going home."

"Don't go!"

The words hung in the air heavily, though they didn't sound like Arthur had said them. They sounded like the words of a scared child.

In truth, Arthur didn't want him to go. He wanted Francis to stay, to help him figure out what had gone so wrong with society. Why had Francis seemed to forget Matthew just a day before, but remembered him clearly enough to defend him now was a mystery to Arthur, and he wanted to figure out exactly what the answer was.

For several minutes, there was silence. Then, finally, Francis spoke again, and his voice was softer and warmer than before. "You need to get your life together before you drag me into it," he said quietly, not turning away from the open door to face him. "I've said that before, and I'll say it again, because it's true. ...I can help you, you know, but you don't seem to want help from me."

"I'm working on it," Arthur muttered, gritting his teeth. "I cleaned the house, see? And I've contacted a couple people I haven't talked to in a while."

"Good for you."

"And I don't need your help."

"I'm sure."

"...But I do want it."

Francis turned, looking at him curiously. "And why do you say that?"

"...You live on the mainland, where there's a lot more people than there are here. And besides, the people on the mainland think we're somewhat barbaric, right?" He received a nod in response, and so he continued. "Then the mortal, normal people won't even think to talk to me."

Before the Frenchman could respond, though, the computer in the corner of the room lit up red, and let out a piercing sound, one that caused both men to cringe.

Arthur raced over to it quickly, pressing the buttons that he knew would cause the sound to stop. He'd done this before...more so in the first few years after the War than in recent years, though. He knew how to stop the sound, and he knew exactly what it meant.

In large, official government formatted letters, there was a message on his screen.

_Arthur Kirkland,  
Yesterday, somebody managed to enter your area of Europe from another continent. We've tried everything that we can to kill them (which, as you know, is the proper punishment), but nothing we've tried seems to be working. We've tried lethal injections, electrocution, bullets, burning, and drowning, but none of it seems to work.  
We know that you've managed to kill the unkillable before, and we need your experience and expertise.  
Thank you,  
The EuroNet, government of Europe_

He sighed, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. The unkillable...that meant another nation.

Every once-nation knew that only a nation could kill a nation. It only made sense. A single human couldn't destroy the Roman Empire, but another empire could.

He'd had to do this once before, only once, with someone who wasn't exactly a nation, and it still tore him apart.

Seventeen years ago, Karuo Wang - the city of Hong Kong - had tried to sneak into Europe to be with his supposed boyfriend. Something Steilson, Arthur knew. No one he was familiar with, at least.

None of the government workers had been able to kill Karuo, and so Arthur had been forced to come in and kill the man himself. Admittedly, they had never had the best relationship, especially in recent years. The lack of business between China and Europe had caused the economy to crash entirely, putting both Yao and Karuo in poverty.

But watching the light fade from Karuo's eyes had put Arthur into a deep hole. He'd killed before, but...not so brutally. One bullet between the eyes caused more blood than he thought.

This message...meant that he had to kill another nation.

Francis had already left, probably walking towards the street, where he would find a way to get to the airport. Maybe take a taxi, or a bus, or something. But Arthur didn't care, not now.

Slowly, he wrote a message in response. Just four little words.

_I'm on my way._

* * *

_'_Ohana _means family. Family means no one gets left behind. Or forgotten.' -Lilo and Stitch_

* * *

There was no reason to go to 'counseling' today, or whatever Elizaveta was calling it now. Neither Berwald nor Tino wanted to leave Loke's side, especially with the boy having taken a turn for the worse.

Peter hadn't wanted to see his adopted brother in such a state. He knew that Loke was having trouble every day, that it was unlikely he'd ever be the same. He'd gone to the home of one of the hospital assistants that was around his age, trying his best to stay ignorant.

The doctors, though, were hopeful. They all said that the cure was rather simple, that all he needed was a bit of rest and a special medication they'd created. 'Experimental,' they said, 'but effective.' All they needed was permission from Tino and Berwald, which they gave somewhat reluctantly. After all, the doctors here knew how to work with humans (save for Elizaveta, maybe, and they had stopped seeing her as often).

They might as well let the doctors use their experimental medication, right? Maybe they could use it to help people who really could use it.

Loke obviously wasn't doing any better, no matter what the doctors did to help him. He was pale and during the few times he would wake up, he was shaking and screaming. It hurt both of them to see Loke in such a state, and it was the reason that Peter had been unable to stay in the hospital room for much longer.

Right now, he was asleep, which was definitely better than him awake and in pain.

All day, there had been a lot of hospital talk. 'Unspecific diagnosis,' 'intraveinous feeding methods,' 'life support.' None of it meant anything to either of the Scandinavians, save for a few words here and there. There was really only one thing they knew for sure mattered:

They were thinking about taking Loke off life support.

Tino was entirely against the idea. He didn't want Loke to die, just because they hadn't been able to do anything for him at the moment. What if they took him off and a day after he...died, they found a way they could have cured him? What if the Bill was repealed (unlikely though it was), and Europe could get the Internet back, and could save him? What if...?

Berwald, on the other hand...he was less against it.

The two had been arguing about it for days now, their relationship hitting more than a few rough spots along the way. They no longer slept in the same room, and when they weren't arguing, their conversations had dwindled to a 'how was your day?' at the most. Neither would be happy if the other got their way in this. If Tino won, Loke might be in pain for years. If Berwald won, he would die.

There was no winning.

Even now, they were only in the same room so that neither of them would have to leave Loke's side.

"...I know he's hurt'ng," Berwald muttered after a while of the room being filled with the sounds of beeps and clicks. "An' we aren' doin' anyth'ng to help."

"It's better than letting him die and then finding out he didn't have to," Tino answered coolly, not even turning his gaze on the other. "I don't want him to die because someone was impatient."

Silence.

For the rest of the time they were there, they didn't speak. After a while, Loke's doctor came in. There was a heated conversation. Tears. Anger. Fear.

And in the end...

Berwald won.

* * *

_'That was the thing. You never got used to it, the idea of someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, accepted, someone points it out to you, and it just hits you all over again, that shocking.' - Sarah Dessen_

* * *

**A/N: Yep, I'm leaving you on _two _cliffhangers! :D I promise, next chapter will clear all of this up!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This chapter was insanely hard to write, mostly because I wasn't sure which people to follow in this one. Then, I went through the process of writing it about six times. I hope the end product is worth it!**

**Warning: character death.**

* * *

The grey EuroNet (British Isles Division) uniform was both disgusting and uncomfortable. Disgusting because it had been in Arthur's closet for years now, uncomfortable because it was just a bit too small.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wear it often, only when something like this happened. After all, he wasn't a very high-up government official anymore. He was only ever called upon when something like this happened, where they couldn't kill somebody.

His drive to EuroNet Headquarters (British Isles Division) wasn't very long - it was in the center of London, and he lived just outside the city. However, it was filled with his own terrifying thoughts. Who would the nation he had to kill be? He knew nothing of a nation's roles outside of Europe - would they still be a nation? Or human? Or what?

...Thinking was getting to be too hard.

It had been so easy not to think, for all those years. To just listen to the world go on around him, and never once leave his house, because his house was so comfortable and familiar and easy and -

Focus.

When he made it to the tall, dark grey building, he almost ran back home. This place used to be a real building, he remembered; a real building where real people lived and worked. Now, though, it was all about the EuroNet, all about getting the people in order. There were no houses around it, only smaller apartments for the workers who couldn't leave the grounds. He missed the warm brick it used to be made of...but that old building was torn down and replaced with stone.

Kind of like the country.

He took a deep breath, then started forward, putting on the self-assured, somewhat conceited expression he'd developed through working with this government.

The door swung open to meet him with a _swoosh, _and even _that _sounded institutionalized and sterilized to perfection.

Inside the building, it was pristine and white. It reminded Arthur, ironically, of a hospital. The lights gave it a somewhat greenish glow, almost like vomit. _Swoosh. _The door had closed.

The projection on the wall in front of him told him exactly where to be.

_Samantha Bates, 54B FLOOR 2.  
Owen Miller, 19D FLOOR 6.  
Arthur Kirkland, 74P._

74P. Prison.

...

The other eleven floors of the building had up to fifty rooms, each room liberally sized and having enough space for people to conduct business. Thirty-five of the rooms were permanent offices; the other fifteen changed constantly. They were often used to entertain workers for other EuroNet groups, like the Iberian Division, and the Scandinavian Division. It was just to keep up appearances, really - everybody knew what every EuroNet Division did. Back when the EuroNet was new, sure, the different Divisions had different jobs. Now, though, the only differences were their regions and their uniforms.

The Prison, though, was entirely different. There were one hundred cells exactly, each cell small, with a hard bed and a sink that ran rancid water. The occupants were always changing, always, and the cells were never totally full. Maybe twenty at a time, at the most.

At the end of the Prison hallway, there was a large room. The room had one unspoken purpose: to kill. The walls were stained with blood, the floor with tears, and the air with fear.

This was where Arthur was told to go.

The blond stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back and his business face on. Behind him stood another ten guards, just in case the prisoner were to try and attack Arthur. He wouldn't be surprised if it happened - it had before, after all.

The room was silent for a while, save for the sounds of dripping water in one of the cells and the heavy breathing of one of the newer guards, obviously nervous. Eventually, someone handed Arthur his weapon: a gun. Quite frankly, he was amazed. Guns had been outlawed...and this one obviously looked like someone had taken care of it. When he asked, the tall man who had handed it to him answered only that "it's being used for government purposes, and therefore legal," then left with his assistant.

It was another several minutes before the inmate was brought in, hands chained behind his back and a hood over his face. He was being escorted by four or five guards - obviously a rebellious one. They sat him down on the hard metal chair at the far wall, attaching the chains to the back of the chair to keep him in place.

"Take the hood off," the prisoner said suddenly, his voice hollow. "I want to see who's going to kill me."

A few of the guards looked over at Arthur for permission, and he nodded slightly. Without a word, one of the guards tore off the hood, and Arthur's eyes widened at the sight.

Dirty blond hair.

Sky blue eyes.

Broken glasses.

_Alfred._

A minute of silence passed through the room as the two men stared at each other. Then another. And another. One of the guards coughed; another hissed, "Get on with it!"

He couldn't do it he couldn't do it he couldn't he couldn't _he couldn't_.

He couldn't kill the man he'd been waiting to see for decades now. Not Alfred. Not his far-off lover, who was so close to him now, but so damn far away and impossible to reach and _damn it _the guards were here and they couldn't do anything because the guards would see and Arthur would be labelled a traitor and killed just as quickly and -

"Kirkland!"

Arthur blinked, his entire expression quivering as he looked over at the guard. "Y-Yes?" he stammered, trying to recompose himself (even though he was dying inside).

"Get _on _with it, or I'll do it myself!"

He knew that the guard couldn't do it. A human couldn't kill a nation.

Slowly, he turned back to Alfred, who was looking at him with such an expression of deep love that he could barely stand it. 'It's alright,' he mouthed silently. 'I love you.'

Under the watchful eyes of the guards, he raised the gun, his hand shaking. Hopefully, it wasn't noticeable enough for the guards to see it.

Everything was in slow motion.

His heart was pounding in his ears, and his vision was getting blurry around the edges. Tears? He didn't know.

The guard that had spoken before took a step forward.

_He couldn't do this._

'I love you.'

_He couldn't._

"Get on with it!"

_He couldn't._

Drip. Drip. Drip.

_Not Alfred._

"I'll give you three seconds, Kirkland."

_Anybody but Alfred._

'It's alright. I love you.'

_Please._

"Two!"

His finger twitched. 'I love you, too,' he mouthed back, and Alfred smiled a bit.

_That beautiful smile..._

"O - !"

_Bang._

...

He didn't remember leaving. He didn't remember driving home. All he remembered was watching the light leave _those beautiful eyes _and the firework of blood shooting out of his head _so much blood so much._

The moment he was home, he slammed his hand in the door. It broke with a sickening _crack, _and it was painful, sure, but he didn't care _you__ cant care anymore nothings worth it NOTHING._

Blood dripped from a small cut in the palm. Subconsciously, he thought to bandage it _no one was there to bandage alfreds wound and he bled so so much _before he made a mess of the house.

A vase fell to the floor, shattering into a million pieces _of skull hitting the wall _on the floor. He'd have to get that cleaned up.

Nothing was right. Nothing would ever be right again. Why bother acting like it could be?

He slammed his head against the wall _once twice three times again again again _until he began to bleed, red dripping in front of his eyes and falling to the floor, tainting his hair, running down to his mouth _i hope you bleed out killer killer killer._

His computer screen flashed, showing a message of congratulations from the EuroNet _congratulations killer. _Without even a thought, he smashed his fist into the screen, glass, sparks, and blood flying everywhere _on the wall behind the chair behind alfred you KILLED HIM._

Vaguely, he felt the floor coming up to meet him, hitting his head on the small coffee table on the way down _alfreds head hurt worse. _A knock at the door sounded _itll never be alfred again YOU KILLED HIM YOU ENDED HIS LIFE KILLER MURDERER KILLER KILLER KILLER, _but he didn't bother to get up to answer it.

As his eyes closed _ALFREDS EYES WONT EVER OPEN AGAIN, _he heard the door open, heard a scream, and knew who it was. Francis _NEVER ALFRED NEVER AGAIN. _

_YOU KILLED HIM._

_YOU KILLED HIM._

_YOU KILLED HIM._

* * *

_'Break, break, break, / On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! / And I would that my tongue could utter / The thoughts that arise in me / And the stately ships go on / To their haven under the hill; / But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, / and the sound of a voice that is still.' - Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

* * *

It hadn't been more than a couple hours, right? Lovino had only been in here for a few hours. But it felt like days.

It wasn't like he was in horrible conditions - far from it. This room was huge, and had a comfortable bed, and plenty of books to read in the old languages. Not just English. That was...strange, to say the least.

There was also a bathroom with clean water off to the side. A functioning toilet, a shower, everything he would need. Clothes in his size - how long had this been planned? - filled the closet. There was a large window, providing a surprisingly stunning view of the countryside.

Hooded attendants had brought him food three times a day, large meals of high-quality food. It wasn't what he'd expected from a EuroNet prison, honestly, but he wasn't complaining about the quality.

Though...there was a downside.

The window that displayed the beautiful countryside wouldn't open. The door that the attendants came through was locked from the outside, made of thick wood (that was strange; most doors were made of metal). The sound of barking dogs reminded him of that whenever he got too close.

There was more to his imprisonment than possessing a gun, he knew. If they wanted him dead for that, he already would be. The gun was part of it, he knew that for sure, but it was barely a part of it at all.

The voices outside the door sounded somewhat familiar, though he couldn't place why. At least he knew there were other people in here - he'd go crazy if there weren't any others. He'd read a book on that, somewhere in this room.

Autophobia: The fear of being alone.

That was it.

He wondered how Lukas was, if he was looking for Lovino. Or if he even knew the Italian was gone, yet.

The door swung open, and there was another attendant. "If you could come with me," the attendant muttered softly, his voice somewhat accented, though it was impossible to tell which accent it was. Somewhat French, maybe a bit Italian. Definitely Iberian.

Slowly, Lovino nodded, standing from the bed. It would be the first time he'd left this room. He had no idea what was outside the room, or even where he was. He had no idea what would be waiting for him once he left the room.

Even so, he stood, and started with the attendant down the hallway.

* * *

_'We are all so guilty at the way we have allowed the world around us to become more ugly and tasteless every year that we surrender to terror and steep ourselves in it.' - Norman Mailer_

* * *

**Iberian (Peninsula): The western peninsula of Europe, with countries such as Portugal, Spain, etc.**

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait, again! ^^;; I hope that this chapter made up for it. I've been wanting to write Alfred's death scene for a while. (I knew from the beginning he was going to die, really.)**

**Hope you liked it~. Reviews are much appreciated!**


	8. Chapter 8

Mathias stood silently on Emil's doorstep, his jacket wrapped tightly about himself as he shivered in the cold. He was used to cold temperatures, sure, but this was insane.

On top of that, his head hurt. It had been hurting the entire plane ride to Reykjavek, but he'd just...chosen not to do anything about it. He had more important matters on his mind.

Slowly, he raised one gloved hand to knock at the door.

Once, twice, and he raised his fist for a third when a blond man opened the door, green eyes narrowed.

This was...new. The man looked almost familiar, like Mathias _should _know him, but for whatever reason, didn't. "Mathias," the man said simply, his eyes still narrowed, as though he were annoyed.

"...Do I know you?" he finally asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

The man sighed, the irritated look fading. "You should. But you probably think you don't, right? I know you, at least. Come inside." And with that, the man disappeared into the house, leaving the door open for the Dane.

Mathias blinked - what had just _happened_? This man was so mysterious, so odd, and what the _hell _was he doing in Emil's house? He was about to start interrogating the man from the doorstep, to yell into the house asking exactly what he was doing, when Emil's voice came from somewhere inside the house. "Come inside or leave. You're letting the cold in."

Slowly, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a hollow _bang. _How long had it been, he realized, since he'd been inside Emil's house? Ten, fifteen years? The house was strange, to say the least.

Pictures of people he'd never met were hung haphazardly on the walls, stuck there with tacks and tape and anything that would keep it to the wall. Photos of places he'd never been to - or, at least, not in his recent memory - hung side-by-side with the people. On the floors, in the doorways of unclosed closets and rooms, and indeed everywhere that could hold anything, there were strange objects that had no relationship with each other. A scrap of pink cloth. A worn-out shoe. A journal with half the pages missing, and with one piece of a word written on the crumbled yellow page: _eri__. _In short, walking through Emil's house was like walking through someone's memorobilia chest.

He continued through the house silently, simply examining the pictures. A few were of him with some other man with ashy blond hair. Some were of Emil. Some were of Antonio. More than a few were of the man at the door and a girl, who appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen. With each other, without each other, alone, together, it didn't matter.

A couple of them were old, too, very old. In 2056, technology had improved greatly, and people could print moving pictures, almost like a video without sound. Many of the pictures lining the walls were like this, resetting itself after a few seconds. However, a couple were still, faces frozen, perpetually staring at the camera.

The blond began to examine one of himself and the man with ashy blond hair, eyes wide and curious. The other man looked like he was berating Mathias for something - possibly for being 'stupid', which he wasn't, really. It was just so much easier to act like that. They were both smiling, though, and their eyes were shining.

"Ahem."

The small sound snapped Mathias out of his reverie, and he turned towards it, then smiled brightly when he saw that it was Emil. Before he could speak, though, the shorter man held up a tired hand. Now that he really looekd closely, Emil looked older than he had before. Or maybe he'd looked that way for a while and Mathias just hadn't noticed. "Tell me why you're here," he ordered coolly, and it was obvious now that this was no time to mess with the man.

"...I," he replied awkwardly, unsure of how to act around _this _Emil. "...I, um. Well. I kind of, um - "

"Spit it out."

"...Antonio and I kinda had a fight, and I was hoping I could stay here 'till it blows over?" he finished almost timidly. It wasn't like him to be so unsure of himself...but he had no idea how to act in this strange house in front of this Emil who acted like an old man.

Emil dropped his hand and sighed, closing his eyes and muttering something to himself that Mathias couldn't quite catch. Finally, he straightened again, eyes still closed. "I guess it's for the best. I was going to have to bring you here anyway, at some point. C'mere."

Slowly, he started towards the other, stepping over a long evening gown that was spread across the floor. The smaller man practically shoved him into a chair, and he started towards the kitchen, silent the whole time.

Mathias had no idea what was going on - not even the slightest. And that unnerved him. He was used to knowing what was happening, to knowing that he had control over something! But this was entirely out of his comfort zone.

A minute later, Emil came back with a glass of cold water and a damp washcloth. "You're going to want these soon," he said, giving no explanation. His eyes betrayed nothing, leaving Mathias even more confused. However, he took the water and the washcloth, holding one in each hand.

"...Why - ?"

But before he could finish, he felt a sharp pain in the front of his head, like firecrackers were exploding in his skull. He let out a loud shriek, dropping both the glass and the cloth and holding his head tightly. He'd been having headaches since he left Denmark, but this, _this _was a million times worse!

Emil watched the display silently, his eyes dark and understanding. The last thing Mathias saw before blacking out was the floor, and his last thought was '_What's going on?'_

* * *

___'What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that's gone forever, impossible to reproduce.' ― Karl Lagerfeld_

* * *

_Patient: Arthur Kirkland_

_Diagnosis: Broken hand, concussion, possible PTSD._

_Condition: Unstable._

Francis paced the waiting room silently, his eyes dark. He couldn't believe that this had happened. One minute, he'd been going over to Arthur's house, just to make sure that the man was really on the path to the right life...and he came in to blood everywhere.

Broken glass around the desk, sparks from the electronics already diminished. Blood on the walls. Blood on the door. And Arthur on the ground, his eyes closed, blood falling down to his lips, and his hand mangled and crushed. But amidst the chaos of his own broken body, there was a strange, almost content smile on his lips.

So it was without even a thought that Francis had driven him to the hospital as fast as possible.

He'd spent the night in the hotel a few blocks away from the hospital. The room smelled like cigarette smoke and sex, and the bed was lumpy, the sheets unclean. It was alright. He wasn't able to sleep anyway.

The next morning, he was back at the hospital only minutes before visiting hours started. It was at precisely 8:03 that he learned that Arthur was still unstable - meaning, no visitors.

He let out a frustrated sound, his teeth gritted. He was already on his way out the metal doors when they were flung open, nearly smashing his face in. "I'm sorry!" apologized the woman who had opened the door. He was about to forgive her when he realized that she was takling _past _him, to the person at the desk. "I know, I'm late - I'm sorry - my papers flew all over the highway - !" She stopped short, finally noticing that she'd almost hit Francis with the door. "I'm sorry!" she repeated frantically.

He gave her a small smile, though it was somewhat strained, unlike his usual easy smile. "It's alright, dear," he said softly, closing the door behind her. "We've all been late, I know how it is."

She laughed lightly, the sound stilted. "Right," she chuckled, and it sounded as forced as Francis's smile. "I've just got to give counseling to this one couple today - incredibly stressful, you know. They've been having lots of problems, 'cos they can't seem to agree on anything, and one of their sons is rebelling a lot, and the other one just _died, _do you know how hard that is? And - "

"Relax!" he said with a small laugh. "Here, how about this. I'll help you set up for today - no offense, but you look like you need it - and maybe I can give you a few ideas on what to say."

Slowly, she nodded, trying to gather her papers together in a more organized fashion. "Alright..." she said just as slowly. "My office is this way."

With that, they started down the sterile white hallway, Francis trailing behind the brunette woman. "So what is it that you do, exactly?" he asked after a minute of silence had gone by.

She smiled softly, opening a door on the right side of the hallway. "I'm a counselor," she answered, stepping into her office and setting the papers on a dark wood desk. "I help people who have family or friends in the hospital. I'm sure you know how hard that is - after all, nobody comes in this early in the morning unless they're sick or dying."

Francis cringed a bit at that, the word from earlier ringing in his ears: _Unstable. _"...I have a friend here, yes," he said slowly, taking a seat on one of the soft-looking but actually uncomfortable chairs.

She gave a small, sympathetic smile, sitting down at her desk and trying to organize her papers a bit. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said softly, setting several papers to the side. "What's his or her name, if you don't mind me asking?"

He was silent for a moment before answering. "Arthur."

She nodded a bit, running a hand through her hair and wincing when her fingers tangled into it. "What happened to him?"

He pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth. "I'd rather not talk about it." In truth, he didn't exactly _know _- he'd have to wait for Arthur to wake up to find out what happened, _if _he would even talk about it.

The woman nodded quickly, biting her lower lip. "I'm sorry."

They sat in near silence awhile, only making light conversation from that point on. How was the weather. Where are you from. What's your name. Simple things. At around 9:30, two men came in, one a few minutes after the other. They didn't speak to each other, didn't look at each other, didn't even acknowledge the other's existence. They spoke through Elizaveta, in a way, because she was the only one who would speak to both of them.

Around 10:00, Francis left, going to the front desk and looking up at the projection that showed the different patients (because, really, they weren't even allowed privacy now).

_Patient: Arthur Kirkland_

_Diagnosis: Broken hand, concussion, PTSD._

_Condition: Stable._

* * *

_'If there is one thing I'd learned about hospitals, it's that they aren't interested in healing you. They are interested in stabalizing you, and then everyone is supposed to move on.' - Eric Nuzum_

* * *

There were two men who worked at the head of the EuroNet. They went about their business quietly, waiting near the coast and keeping away from their own creation.

Neither of them had wanted this to go so far. They hadn't wanted Europe to become so heterogeneous, and they hadn't wanted to lose their own cultures to their creation. Nothing had gone as planned, save for their one successful invention.

A dark blue powder, designed to stimulate the hippocampus and the parietal lobe. Destroy long term memory. Replace it with a feeling of complacency. Make people think that everything's alright, that there's no such thing as war or hate anymore.

Manipulating the continent, that's what they were doing. They manipulated everybody there, and the people didn't even know it. Fortunately, the two men and their few assistants were safe. They'd made sure the powder wouldn't affect them, by getting themselves away from the target zone.

Each EuroNet Headquarters contained a large boiler room, with tall smokestacks reaching towards the sky. Once a month, the powder would be burned and boiled, and the fumes would be released across a specific area. That was why the EuroNet Headquarters were spaced out the way they were; it would make sure no area was left unaffected, save for their own home.

Of course, they'd encountered a few hitches in their invention. It was only to be expected. Most of the hitches were small things: it wouldn't affect one person correctly, and they'd retain a memory, or feel less than content, or someone would be caught in the overlap of target areas and get a double dose.

However, a few of the hitches were larger.

When the powder was exposed to salty air, it would lose almost all of its power. The longer it was exposed, the more of its power it would lose. High altitudes had the same effect. It didn't matter if the powder was inside the person already, or in a shipping crate - it wouldn't change.

So they didn't send it to places only accessible by water or plane. Tell the people those places are too primitive.

Now, they were trying to prove something, only to themselves. To prove the powder was good. Ship it out to hospitals. Use it to help trauma patients.

Destroy the memories.

Replace them with good feelings.

That was all.


End file.
